Jan

by Peter Haden

  Tadzio was beginning to realise that there was more to Hedda, in both a practical and an intellectual sense, than he had at first realised. ‘Ale póki co,’ he replied, ‘but for now, we will have to set aside world politics and fix the roof. In the morning we’ll cut young pines, lop the branches, then split the logs and drag them back. The bigger branches we can tie together so that Kary can also pull the bundles back to the barn – fuel for the stove. After that we remove the worst of the fire-damaged roof timbers and start replacing them with our rough-hewn fir.

  ‘What are you going to do with the tarpaulin?’ asked Hedda, taking another small sip of bimber and passing the bottle back to Tadzio.

  ‘Maybe thatch over it,’ Tadzio replied, ‘might be a good idea. But I’m no thatcher,’ he added.

  ‘Ja mogę to zrobić,’ Hedda said simply. ‘I can do it. Father taught me. He loved doing things on the farm, when he wasn’t at the university.’ She stopped suddenly. Tadzio realised that she had let slip more than intended.

  ‘To nie jest trudne,’ she went on quickly. ‘It’s not difficult. You nail some battens between the main timbers, twine- or wire-in a cross layer of thatch, then put a vertical one on top. One hundred percent waterproof!’ she exclaimed.

  There was even more to Hedda than he had ever suspected, Tadzio realised. ‘OK, but why not thatch over the tarp?’ he asked her. ‘It won’t look so good, but it would be quicker.’

  ‘That tarpaulin would an absolute godsend to my people in the woods. We could give it to the partisans. Otherwise, believe me, they are soaking wet under whatever they can lash up from sods, leaves and branches.’

  Tadzio agreed. They would cut rushes. ‘Za kilka dni,’ Tadzio told her. ‘Another couple of days, and I reckon we’ll have a proper roof over our heads.’

  For several seconds Jan had no hearing at all, just a ringing sensation in his ears. He wiped his face – his hand came away covered in blood and greyish-white matter. But it was not his – the SS officer lay on his side at his feet. Renate stood there, frozen, tendrils of smoke whisping from the barrel of the Webley that was still clutched in shaking hands. The Alsatian sniffed uncertainly at his master’s body, then slunk from the barn, tail well down. Clearly, it attacked only on command. Slowly Jan moved to one side, out of her point of aim, then stepped forward and gently took the weapon.

  ‘What have I done?’ she asked, hands covering her face.

  ‘Saved my life,’ Jan said bluntly. ‘He was going to kill me. Thank god you were there – but I told you to stay with the car?’ he queried.

  ‘I did, for a few minutes, but then I thought it might be a good idea to watch the house when I knew you would be inside the barn,’ she told him. ‘I brought the gun because I didn’t want anyone who might find the car to steal it. I never thought I would have to use it,’ she admitted tearfully.

  ‘Thank God you knew what to do,’ said Jan, moving to the door. No lights had been switched on in the house – it looked as though his deceased captor lived alone.

  ‘You know I was brought up on a farm,’ she told him, ‘I have been using firearms for years. But I’ve never shot a human being before… you have gone all red,’ she said, looking at the mess on Jan’s face, then her nerves gave out and she started to laugh hysterically.

  Jan held her tightly and shushed till she stopped. ‘I’m going to check out the house,’ he told her. ‘If possible, I have to get cleaned up. We can’t drive on with me covered in blood. If there’s no one else here, I’ll fetch the car. First we fill up, then we can think about what to do next.’

  The house was empty. The dog had disappeared. Twenty minutes later Jan parked the Opel by the barn, filled the tank and the empty jerricans and stood to straighten his aching back. It was almost midnight.

  ‘The staff won’t come back till the morning,’ he suggested. ‘I need to take a bath – just look at the state of me. And I stink of petrol. Whoever he was, we are about the same build. Maybe I can find some clothes – mine are stained with blood and brains.’

  Whilst he enjoyed the luxury of a quick soak, Renate raided the kitchen and prepared a generous cheese and ham omelette – obviously, the SS hierarchy were well provided with rations. Fuelled, fed and with a few extra provisions, not least several bottles of fine wine, they would not take the risk of staying in the house any longer than necessary. He also lifted a box of matches from the kitchen.

  ‘Let’s put forty or fifty kilometres behind us,’ he suggested, ‘then find somewhere to park up until it gets light. But I have to destroy the evidence in the barn, so that we delay any manhunt for a few days, by which time we’ll be well away from here.’

  They left the house, doors shut but not locked. Now wearing the most expensive flannel trousers, shirt, pullover and jacket that he had ever known, in the barn Jan left the cap off the Mercedes’ fuel tank, then piled straw underneath it and threw his blood-stained clothing on top. The body of the SS officer he dragged alongside the vehicle. He started the Opel, drove it a short way from the barn, then returned and set light to the straw. Just before turning onto the highway they waited until a soft whoomph confirmed that the fuel tank had exploded. A few metres along the road, glancing back, he could see a red glow as flames engulfed the barn.

  A couple of hours later Jan thought it safe to pull off, reversing along a broad farm track. They dozed fitfully for about an hour and a half, then tidied themselves as best they could for the day ahead. ‘I think we should eat and then set off about seven-ish,’ Jan suggested. ‘If we were stopped at a checkpoint before then, it might look a bit suspicious.’

  They breakfasted well. Renate had hard-boiled some eggs whilst making the omelette and these, together with some Brötchen and butter also lifted from the kitchen, made something of a feast. She had even thought to remove a packet of salt. But it had been a desperate night. Although longing for coffee, which they could not make, they opened and drank sparingly from a bottle of wine.

  They stopped driving early that afternoon and spent the night in a rather more comfortable hotel not far from Paderborn. Fortunately, Jan was at last able to buy petrol. There was one more night, somewhere in the industrial area south of Düsseldorf, where with so many commercial travellers they attracted no interest at all. On the afternoon of the following day, with Renate navigating carefully from her father’s map, they were just short of the drive that led to the address of Herr Klaus and Frau Meta Holtzer.

  ‘She would give us both a room, you know,’ argued Renate.

  ‘Best she doesn’t know,’ countered Jan.

  ‘Do you want to take the car?’ she offered.

  He shook his head. ‘I can make my own way from here. Besides, it would be a waste – I would only have to leave it somewhere nearer the front. In any case, it belongs to your family. You take it, and if you can’t get fuel then lay it up for the duration. Just make sure the wheels are chocked clear of the ground,’ he finished lamely.

  ‘Dearest Jan,’ she said tenderly. ‘Still looking after me till the last minute.’ Twisting in her seat, she pulled his head to hers and kissed him once, passionately, on the lips.

  ‘You were always the perfect gentleman,’ she said softly. ‘I hope and pray that we will meet again, once this stupid war is over.’ She released him, and they were once more apart.

  Jan took stock of his situation. Renate would not need the Webley, and he still had a box of ammunition. He was wearing decent boots, good clothes and had a cape in case it rained. The weather was benign, so provided it did not deteriorate he ought to be all right for the few days it would take him to reach the border. Carefully he stowed some rations into his rucksack.

  ‘I guess this is it,’ he told her. ‘You drive up to the house and I shall carry on. It’s best this way – what the Holzers don’t know, they can never tell. If I can find a way of sending word to you, I will,’ he told her, before opening the door a
nd holding it whilst she walked slowly and reluctantly round the bonnet. She stroked the side of his face tenderly then settled into the driving seat.

  ‘Stay safe,’ she told him, ‘and try to come back to me.’

  Knowing that she was beginning to well up, Renate started the engine, wound down the window, clutched Jan briefly on the forearm and engaged first gear. He watched as she turned into the drive, seeing her look at the last second in the mirror, then he lowered his hand, shouldered the rucksack and set off for the border.

  It was a substantial, prosperous-looking farmstead. Nothing like the cottage her father had described, and where he had made such a bedraggled and dramatic arrival twenty-one years ago. But Renate could see where the original dwelling had been extended to provide a quality, country residence. A well dressed, middle-aged woman came out of the front door as soon as she drew up outside and set the handbrake.

  ‘I know who you are,’ she said, holding Renate’s shoulders at arms’ length. ‘Let me look. You are beautiful… and I can see Günther Raschdorf in you all over again, even after all these years.’

  Meta took her upper arm. She was smiling, the few wrinkles alongside her eyes clearly signalling her delight. ‘I know all about you,’ she said quickly, ‘but Klaus doesn’t. I have told him that you are the daughter of a very dear friend who is also a distant relative.’ All this before they entered the spacious hall. ‘He’s looking forward to meeting you,’ she went on, ‘though he’s resting at the moment. For now, we’ll have something to celebrate, then later on we can have supper.’

  They entered a good-sized drawing room. Meta poured two glasses of pale sherry, then sat beside Renate on the sofa. ‘Was it a difficult journey?’ she asked.

  Renate looked around before replying. Clearly there was evidence of wealth and good taste, but not ostentation. It could just as well have been their drawing room at home. Thoughts of the estate, her parents and the events of the journey were almost too much. She had to wipe away a tear.

  ‘None of this has been easy,’ she began, ‘but I can’t thank you enough for taking me in. I would never have been safe on the estate.’

  ‘Has your father told you what he did for me?’ asked the older woman.

  ‘Only that he was able to help you just after the last war,’ Renate said tactfully.

  They heard the sound of footsteps in the hall. ‘We’ll talk again tomorrow,’ said Meta. ‘But believe me, you are very welcome to stay here for the duration.’

  Tall, slim and balding, Klaus Holtzer was clearly some years older than his wife – perhaps in his sixties. And he walked with a cane. But even so he had an aristocratic bearing and a kindly smile. ‘I like your Opel,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I hope you will enjoy your stay with us… I am retired now, and we are simple country people. But Meta can show you to your room, and I’ll have someone bring your things from the car. Afterwards, you can put it into one of the barns. We are not grand enough for a garage,’ he finished, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Meta stood and took her husband’s arm as he lowered himself into a chair. They clearly had a long and loving understanding and were happy and comfortable together, given that there probably never had been the first flush of romance.

  Renate glanced at a photograph on the mantelshelf of a young man in the uniform of a Wehrmacht officer. ‘That’s our son, Hans,’ Klaus told her. ‘And we have a daughter, Gisela. She is at the university in Cologne, reading modern languages. Although she is studying in Rome at the moment, trying to perfect her Italian. She’ll be back after the Spring term.’ Renate glanced at the adjacent photograph. Her heart almost stopped. It was as if she had looked in a mirror. Fortunately, Klaus Holzer had been distracted by Meta, who was handing him a glass of sherry.

  Jan’s journey to the front proved relatively uneventful. Sometimes he walked but more often than not he was able to cadge a ride, either in a lorry or, on more than one occasion, on a horse-drawn cart. With the money Renate had given him, and showing occasionally his borrowed Ausweis, he was able to lodge overnight in cheap inns that at least provided a meal and bed and kept him dry. But he walked the last few kilometres to Monshau, a border village just south of Aachen.

  During the first months of the war there was little activity on the western front – all the action was in the east. The borders were patrolled, but fighting units were for the most part either billeted or kept in barracks. There was very little skirmishing. Seeing a border post in the distance, he turned off the road and followed the edge of many fields, all the time heading west. When eventually he rejoined a paved highway, the number plate of the car that stopped to give him a lift confirmed to Jan that he was in Belgium. It had been that easy.

  What was not so easy, however, was that the driver was French speaking and Jan knew only Polish or German. His benefactor was nervous at first, and kept poking Jan with an index finger whilst repeating ‘Deutsch, Deutsch?’ – clearly one of the few German words he knew.

  Jan had no choice but to revert to his own language. ‘Polak,’ he replied. ‘Polish.’ And at last the driver understood. Jan had an idea and pointed first to himself and then west, through the windscreen. ‘England, England!’

  ‘D’où venez-vous?’

  Jan didn’t understand, but sensed that he was being asked either about his nationality or where he had come from. ‘Polska, Polska,’ he replied. ‘Poland, Poland.’

  The driver pointed at him, then said ‘England?’ The rising inflexion made the question obvious.

  Jan nodded vigorously. The driver was almost beaming now, from ear to ear. He took Jan’s hand and shook it, pumping it up and down. ‘Angleterre,’ he said to himself, putting the car into gear. They drove, although where they were going Jan was unable to ask. But as they were heading more or less in a westerly direction he was content to enjoy the ride. Eventually they came to quite a large city and the Belgian pulled up outside what appeared to be a police station, judging by the ‘Politie’ sign. The driver, whose name Jan still did not know, pointed to Jan, then to himself, and finally to the front entrance. Jan thought for a moment, but realised he had little choice. Once inside, there was a torrent of unintelligible words till Jan was signalled to a chair. He felt encouraged and a little more relaxed when he was given a cup of coffee. Finally, he was called to the desk and handed a telephone handset.

  ‘Hello?’ he asked nervously.

  ‘Kim pan jest?’ asked a friendly voice in Polish. ‘Who are you?’

  Jan told him where he had come from, and that he was trying to join the Polish army in Britain, if indeed there was one. ‘Lub Armia Brytyjska,’ he added. ‘Or the British Army. In fact, any Army that will fight the Germans.’

  ‘I am going to arrange for you to be given a rail warrant,’ said the voice on the other end of the line. ‘When you get to Brussels, ask for directions to the Ambassade Britanique. Remember those words, and just keep repeating them whenever you need directions. You’ll get here eventually. Now, say it back to me, Ambassade Britannique.’

  Jan complied. ‘Może być,’ he was told. ‘That’ll do. We’ll see you later this afternoon or this evening. The people at reception will know that you’re coming. Powodzenia. Good luck. Now hand the phone back to the police.’

  There was a further exchange before the receiver was replaced. Shortly afterwards a civilian clerk appeared with a book of printed warrants. Jan was handed one on which had been written the words Liège and Bruxelles. The rest he couldn’t understand. His driver shook his hand once more and departed. Jan was beckoned to follow a policeman through the building to the yard behind, from where he was driven to a railway station. The policeman took him to a window and the warrant was exchanged for a ticket. Finally, he was shown to a platform and invited to climb into a carriage. It was dusk when, weary from travel, he found the Ambassade Britannique.

  Chapter 14

  ‘Muszę mieć broń,’ Hedda told him.
‘I need a weapon. I didn’t bring one with me because they are in desperately short supply and our partisans in the forest have a greater need than do I. Also, I needed to find out what the situation was here.’

  ‘How do you plan to get hold of one?’ Tadzio asked. ‘And what are you going to do with it?’

  ‘Zdobędę u Niemców,’ she said simply. ‘I’ll take one off the Germans. Most of the time I’ll be here on the farm, but when we mount a major operation I intend to be part of it. That’s why I joined the partisans. And I would rather take my own, zeroed weapon than have to borrow every time I need one. If it’s all right with you, I’ll be gone for one or two days at the most, then I’ll be back.’

  ‘Na pewno nie możesz tego zrobić sama?’ he queried.

  ‘Yes, I can do it on my own,’ she replied confidently. ‘It’s too far to walk to our camp, ask for help with a simple ambush, then walk back here again all in one or two days. Besides, this way the risk will be all mine – no-one else need be involved. If anything went wrong, and a group of us were tracked back to our base, it would be a disaster.’

  Tadzio thought for a minute or so. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked eventually. ‘How come you are half German but you hate them so much?’

  She looked at him for quite a while, as if making her mind up whether – or how – to respond.

  ‘Dobrze,’ she said at length. ‘All right, you’re providing a roof over my head, so I suppose you are entitled to know something about me.

  ‘My father was the kindest, most cultured man you could imagine,’ she went on. ‘He taught classics at the university in Berlin. It was there that he met my Polish mother. She came from a good family and had gone there to study.’

  Tadzio noticed that she had not mentioned from where, in Poland, her mother’s people originated.

  ‘They fell in love, got married, and I was the result,’ said Hedda wistfully. ‘But in 1933 the Nazis passed a law depriving Polish immigrants of their German citizenship. My mother lost hers. Later that same year, they said that because my father was Jewish he was not allowed to own land. My parents lost the farm that had been my childhood home – it was just taken from us. Fortunately, Father still had his teaching post, but we had to move into a small apartment in the city. It was the beginning of a very bad time for our family.